


You're the book that I have opened

by Jepshe



Series: Just stay safe [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Angst, F/M, Reunions, WW2, Wartime Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:47:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25798408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jepshe/pseuds/Jepshe
Summary: "Lyanna," Rickon says, his voice hoarse, like he can't believe it's actually her, and she knows exactly the feeling."I thought it was your ginger head a saw," she mutters as she steps closer to his bed and  sees his face relax at her words like he can finally trust it is really her and not just some vision his mind has conjured.She reaches out her hand, placing it on his cheek, brushing his cheekbone with her thumb and he lifts his own hand to hold her wrist, pressing his head against her palm.
Relationships: Lyanna Mormont/Rickon Stark
Series: Just stay safe [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1844116
Comments: 6
Kudos: 21





	You're the book that I have opened

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently even mentioning Rickon and his love for a Mormont girl is dangerous and can lead to obsessive thoughts of those two in a wartime setting. And this is what happens. 
> 
> It needs to be mentioned that Lyckon would not even exist in my head without [pieces of you stuck on me (but i'm careless and i'm wicked)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23403709/chapters/56087983) by [fineosaur](https://tumblr.com/%5Bfineosaur%5D), so these babies here really would not be without that story.
> 
> The title is from Unfinished sympathy by Massive Attack.

The hospital is as busy as ever, but somehow, among all the people, a bunch of red hair catches Lyanna's eye. She sees glimpses of the trolley down in the hallway, glimpses of the figure stretched on it, but it's too far to make out the man lying there. 

She pushes the towels from her hands to her co-worker, mumbling some vague explanation and excuse, starting to make her way down the stairs. It's a slow process with all the commotion, someone stopping her to ask for an empty bed or a direction but she doesn't even register it properly. 

Lyanna keeps her eyes fixed on the trolley, hurrying around the corner she saw it being carried behind and finally, in one of the large rooms, she sees the carriers help the man move to a bed. She sighs a breath of relief: the man with the red hair is moving himself, even if he does need some help. 

There's something in that movement, the posture of his shoulders and the way he lifts his arm that's clearly injured — it's familiar, and she moves even faster, stopping when she comes close to him. 

One of the carriers notices Lyanna, stepping away to make room for her, nodding his head politely. 

"One more for you, miss. This one can tell you himself what's happened to him."

They think she's here just to take in a new patient, she realises, and why would they not. She nods, and feels the men move away from the bed. But she doesn't see them, doesn't really care for them one bit because she sees him properly now. 

At the same moment he raises his eyes, a surprised expression taking over his face as he takes her in. 

"Lyanna," Rickon says, his voice hoarse, like he can't believe it's actually her, and she knows exactly the feeling. 

"I thought it was your ginger head a saw," she mutters as she steps closer to his bed and sees his face relax at her words like he can finally trust it is really her and not just some vision his mind has conjured. 

She reaches out her hand, placing it on his cheek, brushing his cheekbone with her thumb and he lifts his own hand to hold her wrist, pressing his head against her palm. 

She swears she sees a glaze in his eyes, but she won't mention it and he blinks it away, closing his eyes as his lips turn into a content smile. 

"I knew they were bringing me to Malta but I didn't know how many hospitals there are here and I didn't dare to wish I'd be this lucky." 

She could very easily get lost in the low tone of his voice and the way his eyes stare at her, but the circumstances of this meeting demand a different reaction.

"What happened to you? Where are you hurt?" she asks, her training kicking in. She removes her hand from his cheek and starts peeling the cover off of him, the way they examine all the patients. 

His hand grabs hers, stopping its movement. 

"I'm fine," he tells her, "It was just a rough landing that's all, nothing's really broken, just some scratches and strains."

She eyes him, taking in his other arm on a sling, an obvious dislocated shoulder and the patch on his hairline. 

"Seriously Lyanna, I'm fine."

He gives her hand a squeeze, his voice softer now. He's trying to convince her, she knows it, knows him. 

"I'll go tell someone I'm needed here and get some stuff to get you cleaned up and resting," she says before turning from him. She hurries away before he has a chance to get a word out, blinking hard to stop the tears from falling, brushing away the ones that still do. She shakes her head, she can't cry here, not right now. 

Lyanna won't lie, being closer to him was definitely one of her biggest reasons for lifting her hand up when the head nurse asked if anyone would want to volunteer to be stationed in Malta. She knew — she had studied the map of that area for all those hours during the last year and a half after all — she knew it was not Africa and with Rickon keeping his whereabouts permanently vague she didn't even know if it was anywhere near to where he was. But it was closer than London so she raised her hand. 

And now it seems it has in fact been somewhere relatively near to the right location.

It feels unreal. She hasn't seen him in, what, almost two years and now he's lying in a hospital bed in the place she works.

She tells her co-worker there's someone she knows and that she'll go help them and the other nurse nods, promising to make sure the task she was in the middle of doing before the interruption gets done. There are no questions, this isn't the first time there's a familiar face for someone and whether it's a brother or a cousin or a boy someone used to go to school with, the answer is always the same: go on, see to him. It's a rare treat and none of them wants to deny the others that little bit of home.

She doesn't need to explain who this man is that she wants to take care of so badly and she's grateful for that because she doesn't think she could put it into words what Rickon means to her. It's not just because their relationship still remains somewhat undefined — although that doesn't make it easier — but because he is so many things. He's her friend, he's someone she's known her entire life, he's her partner in crime and he's her lover, even if he hasn't spoken too many words of love to her.

Rickon must have been waiting for her because his eyes meet hers as soon as she steps into the room he is in.

His lips curve into a smile at once and Lyanna can't stop herself from returning the gesture. They may be in a military hospital and he may be wearing a worn out uniform — or parts of it, anyway — but his smile is still the same as it always was, impossible to resist and utterly charming.

"I can't say I mind that it's you who'll be taking my clothes off," he jokes as she reaches his bed.

She slaps his shoulder.

"I'm not planning on taking your clothes off. I'm just going to check your wounds and change the wrapping and list all you injuries."

She sets to work at once, questioning him about his injuries and going through them diligently. Rickon plays along, answering her every question, though she suspects he's trying to make his accident sound less severe than it actually was.

"It really wasn't a big thing, my foot just hit the ground in a bad angle," he tells her as she reaches his ankle, unwrapping the dressing on it. She stops her hands, turning towards him and he seems to realise immediately he has misspoken as his eyes widen.

"Rickon," her voice is calm but she knows he can hear how it almost quivers, "Where did you land from?"

She knows the look in his face, the way he's trying to come up with an explanation.

"Are you telling me that this 'not serious bad landing' of yours involved you using an ejection seat?"

"It's not that big of a deal," he says quickly, "We do it all the time — we train for it so much Lyanna, it's not that uncommon — it's okay, really."

"Rickon you can't lie to us here. We need to know what's happened to you so we know how to treat you and — you could have some internal bleeding or, I don't know, are you sure your ankle isn't fractured?"

Her hands move fast on his skin, her eyes sweeping over him, taking in all his bruises as her mind works fast, thinking of all the injuries he could have.

"Lyanna, don't be mad."

She looks up at him, realising how wrong he is interpreting her demeanor. She's not angry, she really isn't, but he could have been seriously hurt, maybe he _is_ seriously hurt and in pain and he's just trying to act brave...

She lets out a long breath of air, forcing herself to calm down a little bit.

"I'm not mad," she tells him, "I'm just trying to make sure you're alright and you're —"

Rickon's hand on her wrist stops her.

"I'm fine," he insists, but she can't just take his word for it.

"I need to write this all down so the doctor will know to examine you properly when he comes."

She takes his chart from the end of his bed, starting to write notes, her pen moving fast.

"Hey."

His voice is softer, pleading her.

"I'm so happy to see you, Lyanna."

She looks at him, his expression is suddenly insecure, there's a trace of everything he's been through during these last years and she thinks he looks both younger and older at the same time.

"You'll come see me later, after your shift? To see me, to talk to me?"

She raises her palm to cradle his face, the tips of her fingers brushing his hair. She wants to kiss him, hug him, hold him, but she can't, not when she should be working. But later, later she will.

"Of course I'll come."

* * *

  
  
  


"What's got my baby smiling like that?"

Rickon can hear her mother's voice in his mind as if from a distance, but the memory is clear.

He was stretched over one of the sofas in the library — at home, in Winterfell, oh how impossible it feels. His mother's slender fingers combed through the hair on the top of his head. 

He had been deep in his daydreaming and hadn't heard her mother walk in. Now she was leaned close to him, her hand going through his locks in that calming way of hers he can remember her doing since he was just a little boy. 

"Tell your mother darling, what's on your mind," her mother's urged. "Is it that girl?" 

He didn't give his mother much of an answer, but she didn't seem to mind. She probably wasn't expecting him to tell her. 

"She's a sweet girl," his mother said and he couldn't help but chuckle. It was nice that her mother thought so but 'sweet' was not one of the words he would have used to describe Lyanna. 

'Sweet' was too boring for Lyanna, too common. Lyanna was gorgeous and alluring and mesmerizing. She was funny and strong—minded and unafraid and she was much wilder than what his mother probably thought was appropriate. All those things that Rickon thought were just perfect. 

"You remember that one of grandmother's old rings is meant for you, for when you want to give it to —" 

His groan cut her mother off. 

"I'm not giving anyone a ring, I'm eighteen."

His mother shooed him. 

"I'm just saying. I don't want you to rush either, you know your father and I want to see you get your education first, we don't expect you to get married before that."

She combed her slender fingers through his hair again, the auburn locks the exact same color as hers. 

"But you do realise you can't just toy with the girl forever — no, don't look at me like that, I know it was her you were with on Friday night when you got home so late. You remember your manners, I would very much like to avoid an awkward conversation with Maege Mormont when I see her."

His mother had given him a stern look and told him to keep his shoes off the sofa but she had ruffled his hair as she left the room. He knew he got the soft treatment when it came to his mother. Catelyn Stark was a strict mother but Rickon was the baby of the family and being the youngest had its perks. 

It was still best his mother didn't know the half of what he got up with Lyanna, both when they were alone and when they weren't. 

It had been the second summer of war and he had been eighteen. He had already enlisted but his training hadn't started. They had been waiting, he for his pilot training, Lyanna for her nursing course. And neither of them had any real sense of what was to come. 

To be near Lyanna again feels like a dream Rickon didn't dare to dream. Or he did of course dream of it because that's what they do, they dream about home and girls and all those things that they miss but those are just fantasies. All of those things seem so far away it's like iäthey are little more than a story you once read. 

He didn't dare to hope this dream would come true, even when he knew she was in Malta. It was still far away and he didn't know where he would be next month or next week. She was working in a hospital and being in a hospital meant you had gotten hurt and for a pilot — they didn't really get hurt that much, if something happened to them it was often too late for a hospital. 

But here they are now, both on the same island. He feels luckier than any man has the right to be. 

Somehow, in the middle of this all, with the war raging everywhere around them and having been going on for years — how many? he has to stop to count — she's as beautiful as ever or rather more beautiful than he can remember her ever being. It doesn't matter if she's clearly exhausted by her work, it doesn't matter if she sleeps poorly in that room she shares with her co-worker. She looks worried all the time and her smile is not the carefree one he remembers from those days in the North, her eyes are not shining with endless mirth. But none of it matters, she's stunning. 

She's also still Lyanna. Of course she's changed, they all have and he certainly has so if she hadn't, he doubts he would still feel this way about her. But underneath it all, she's still the same girl who let him play with the strands of her long hair and whose eyes seemed to always find his. She still understands him with few words, she still looks at him with warmth and so much more than that too.   
  


It's barely an alley, just a little space between two buildings, shielded away from prying eyes. He has her back pressed against the stone wall, cool here in the shadows. Her arms are holding him close to her, seizing the fabric of his jacket as she kisses him with fervor. His tongue slides against hers, his mouth muffling the little moans she lets out. 

He removes his lips from hers to catch some air, leaning his forehead on hers as he breathes hard. 

"We need a room." 

"We can't go to my room here, you know that," Lyanna reminds him.

"Can you sneak out later, we could find some place when it's dark?"

"I'm working tonight you silly."

He sighs, shaking his head. 

"You're just making me go mad here, Lyanna." 

"You're making _me_ go mad," she tells him and it only makes it worse. 

He leans into her again, pressing hard against her, holding her entire body to him, feeling every part of her. It's truly maddening, her breasts on his chest, the way her small body feels soft and warm as it's flush so tight against him. Her hips, swaying slightly near his middle, making it easy to forget time and place. 

"I should go already so I won't be late again. You're being a bad influence on me," Lyanna tells him, smiling in a way that lets him know she doesn't mind it in the least. 

"You can stay for a little while."

He bows his head to place his mouth on her neck, planting wet kisses on her skin. He can feel Lyanna's laughter bubbling out of her. 

"You're the one who complained about going mad."

She pushes him off of her gently, still keeping her hands on him. 

"We can meet again tomorrow, can't we?" she asks.

Rickon takes a moment to clear his thoughts, straightening his clothes. 

"Of course we can."

He walks her to the hospital and she gives him an innocent kiss on the cheek before she goes in. He looks at her, climbing the steps to the door. Her legs, that little sway of her hips. He has a huge smile on his face when she turns around at the entrance to wave her hand at him, and it the way she bites her lip as she looks at him makes his stomach flip.

He thinks about the ring that night. His mother had mentioned it one other time too, right before he left, when he had been back in Winterfell for a visit after finishing his training. 

"Maybe you should ask her before you go," she had told him but he had said no. He knew better than presenting Lyanna a ring, knew she didn't want to get engaged for a long time let alone married. Besides, it was not like they had made any promises to each other, not like she had said she was his girl. 

She would have thought he was only asking her to have someone while he was out there and she'd probably gotten mad. 

Now though… It feels like the war has lasted forever and sometimes, on lonely nights somewhere in the heat of Egypt or some of the other places he's been — sometimes it has felt hard to remember exactly — he had wondered what it would be that he'd be going back to, if he was lucky enough to go back home. If she'd be a part of it, if they'd still know each other, if they'd still want to know each other after all this time.

But one look into her eyes and he had felt sure that he could never want anything more than to know her and be with her. And one conversation was all it had taken to make him feel like he did know her, that the connection was there as strong as it always had been. 

"I talked to the head nurse today, she asked me if I would like to stay here or go back to London," Lyanna tells him on his last night in Malta. He's leaving in the morning and he isn't allowed to tell her where to. Not that it matters much, he thinks. If it's not here on this island, it's all the same. 

They are walking on the pebble beach, the blue hour just starting. It's quiet, only a few soldiers walking a little way from them, the sea calm.

"Go home," he tells her.

Lyanna purses her lips.

"I don't know. I was thinking I might try to get on one of those ships again, or go to Gibraltar."

"Don't go to a ship," he groans, "Those things go down all the time, you know that."

"Don't tell me what to do," she snaps.

"Lya."

She rolls her eyes, turning her face away from him. But Rickon takes her hand into his, pulling her to him, and she doesn't protest. 

"Lya," he says again, "I'm not trying to tell you what to do. I am not. I just want you to be safe, is that so bad of me?"

"You're one to speak," she mutters. And she's right, he knows that, he's a pilot after all and that is one of the most dangerous things, there's no way around it.

He shakes his head, tired.

"Just please not the ships," he says, "I don't know why but that creeps me out the most, the thought of you trapped there if something happens."

She huffs out a breath, looking as tired as he feels.

"Fine, I'll look into something else. I'll stay in London or see if they'd need me in Gibraltar."

He presses a kiss on her cheek.

"It can't be so bad that I hope you stay safe," he murmurs.

"It's not. But you know I'm not the type of girl who stays home to knit socks."

The thought of Lyanna knitting is enough to make him smile.

"I know, believe me I do," he tells her and when he looks at her he thinks she knows he loves that about her. He thinks she knows it's this fierceness of hers that's kept him enthralled all these years.

He knows this is his last chance to speak with her, really speak with her for god knows how long. When he leaves tomorrow, who knows when they might meet again. And Lyanna, with her long hair flowing free in the breeze from the sea, her big brown eyes fixed on him, is such a sight he feels he needs to say the words.

"You know, there are all these old things my grandmother left us," he starts and she looks at him, obviously wondering where this is going.

"There's this ring there, I think it's quite nice, and it's kind of there waiting for me to, you know, give to someone."

Lyanna narrows her eyes.

"Rickon…" 

There's a hint of warning in her voice, but she's only whispering.

"I was just thinking," he shrugs. "I thought maybe you'd like to have it."

Lyanna stays silent. 

"I mean obviously I don't have it with me, so I can't give it to you right now or anything, but maybe, I don't know, I could write to my parents — or Bran, he could find it, it wouldn't be as awkward — if you went to Winterfell —"

Her hand on his chest interrupt his speech. She's shaking her head and he thinks he has ruined it all, he's been an idiot, but the way she looks at him then, with a trace of a smile on her face, gives him hope.

"I don't want your brother giving me a ring, Rickon," she tells him, moving her hand to cup his face. "The ring isn't that important."

"But I wanted you to have it."

"Well then you need to come back home and give it to me once this is all over."

She comes to see him off the next morning. Wearing her nurse's uniform, her long brown hair swept neatly into a bun, she looks every bit of that sweet girl his mom had called her once. But she steps closer to him, a glimpse of something passing over her face, and he has a sudden flash of a memory. Lyanna, in the garden of Winterfell, roses in bloom all around her, looking at him with a mischievous smile, laughing as he leans down to kiss her, answering his kiss with equal amount of passion.

He wonders if he'll ever see her like that again. 

But he'll gladly take her any way he can, he'll take the serious eyes that are currently set on him, he'll take the quiet voice that whispers that she'll miss him, he'll take the sadness that seems to follow her everywhere now.

"I'll write when I can," he promises her.

"I love you, Lyanna," he says, his voice low. But he knows she hears him as she presses her face on his neck, holding onto him like she never wants to let go, before she inevitably must do just that.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


It's raining, again. London is grey and her room feels chilly, her tea has gone cold.

The date on top of the letter in her hand is from more than two months ago and it's the last one she's gotten. Doesn't mean anything, she tells herself, letters get lost and everyone has been busy, all troops on the move, so he probably hasn't had a chance to write let alone mail anything. 

It doesn't mean a thing. 

She had dreamed of him again. Of his hands, holding her by the waist, pinning her own hands on the mattress while he hovers above her. Of his blue eyes, locked on hers. Of his voice, saying her name. It's more of a memory than it is a dream, really, because it all has happened, long time ago but still.

They say the war will soon be over and that the men will all be back soon, and that they should all be thinking about the life after it all.

There are already so many more men back, just the day before she had talked to a nice young man in the marketplace. He had been so polite and handsome enough too, but the eyes were the wrong colour and he was much too short. She had kindly declined his offer of a cup of coffee, telling she had somewhere to be when in reality she was only going to walk home, thinking how the sound of Rickon's laughter used to caress her when she tickled his sides, lying in grass next to him, years ago.

Her unfinished letter has been lying on her desk for days. She doesn't know if it will ever reach him, doesn't even have a clue where he is. Last she heard it was still somewhere in the Mediterranean. He had mentioned Italy, but that was so long ago he could be on the other side of the globe by now for all she knows.

Maybe it's no use writing, no use sending the letter. Maybe it will never get read.

But what else is there to do? She can only try, trust that there is someone who is aware of his whereabouts, that he isn't lost. And they would have told her if he was gone, wouldn't they? Someone would have sent her a word, surely. Bran at least knows enough, she believes, and his sisters too, probably. They'd tell her if they knew something. 

She hasn't heard anything, so she must trust that he's still somewhere, trying to stay safe.

She takes her pen in hand again. 

_You promised me that ring, Rickon. You better come give it to me once this is all over and done._


End file.
